Criminal Heroine
by FantasyEmpress
Summary: The man she loved was dead, killed by his own companions. The entirety of Cyrodil hated and feared her. She was alone in the world, accompanied only by her horrible, guilty memories and the stirring in her belly. And the monk. Spoilers!


**Disclaimer; I own nothing. Poor me.**

**A/N: I used to only write Pirates of the Caribbean stories, but I'm gonna start doing different things. For example, I've been watching the Brady Bunch, of all things, and might start righting a few Greg/Marcia fics. We'll see. I think Lucien LaChance is a vampire, but like Janus Hassildor, he's hiding it somehow. His eyes look kinda pinkish, and his teeth look half-fangish. **

The man she loved was dead, killed by his own companions. The entirety of Cyrodil hated and feared her. She was alone in the world, accompanied only by her horrible, guilty memories and the stirring in her belly. And the monk. Why did this middle-aged, soft-spoken monk insist that she, a Dunmer, a former assassin pregnant with the illegitimate child of one of the most ruthless killers in Tamriel, must be the one to save his inheritance, his kingdom? Why couldn't he find someone else? One of the Blades perhaps, those high-born, loyal men and women who watched her with such scorn despite having technically accepted her as one of their own? They had never known the hardships that had pressed her to become one of the worst criminals in the Empire. They had not grown up tormented because of their race, had not gone for days without bread, had not been beaten and raped because they were different. They were Imperials, proud majorities with no fear of rejection. Why couldn't they be the ones to save their kingdom?

Martin didn't look at her with scorn. He had touched the darkness, he knew its power. He didn't judge her. She had spilled her entire life story to him, blubbering like an idiot, on the first day he noticed the bump at her belly. He held her while she cried, uncaring that he was the rightful emperor and she was simply a lowly criminal. She told him how she had been born the daughter of a Dunmer prostitute and a Breton sailor. How her mother had sold her to a brothel when she was thirteen. How she had been beaten by a 'customer' so badly that the madame threw her out because the bruising made her unattractive. How she had come from Morrowind to Cyrodiil, stealing food along the way, at one point stealing a horse. She had been raped and thrown into prison by an Imperial Legion soldier. The darkest, most awful dungeon. The soldiers had raped her, again and again. On day, one beat her so badly that she woke up in the morning remembering everything but why she had ended up in prison. Perhaps it was simply because their wasn't a logical reason to remember. The man across the hall always leered at her, mocked her misery, made lewd comments, called her a whore as if she had invited the soldiers.

Then came the day when the emporer himself entered her cell. She had followed him through mazes and tunnels, puzzled by his kindness to her and his apparent opinion that she was something important, special. Before he was assassinated, he had told her of a man she must speak to, a monk. Told her of his last son, the heir to the throne. Told her that she would save Tamriel.

But prophecies of greatness did not erase the realities of hunger and cold. So it was that one day she found herself snooping through the cellar of the Imperial Palace itself, looking for something to eat. When a guard rushed her, inteneding to either rape her or kill her, something inside her snapped. She would not let herself be harmed anymore. Breton magic, her father's only legacy to his harlot-begotten daughter, flew to her fingertips. When the guard's body hit the ground, scorched horribly, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified. To her, it was self defense. But that night, sleeping in a cheap bed in a shabby inn, she discovered that to the higher powers, it was murder.

The beautiful man with the shining eyes was incredible. He told her of a family that would love her, accept her as one of their own, call her sister and protect her from harm. A family that did not care what race she was or what background she had. He had been the first to welcome her, calling her sister while his eyes conveyed something else.

She rarely saw him, but she knew she loved him. It was not until he summoned her to the fort where he was in hiding that they revealed their feelings for each other. He never said he loved her, except for when referring to her as sister. His love was in his hands and his eyes; in the way he trusted her enough to put down his magical barriers and show her his true form; the glittering red eyes and long, shining fangs. In the way he peireced her neck so gently, licking the wounds cautiously, healing them with magic and love. She knew what they did then was wrong, in some way she regretted it. But the feeling of his babe within her kept her from regret.

When the Black Hand murdered him for a betrayal he didn't commit, her heart broke. She never went near them again. Every murder she had commited had been for Lucien, not for the Night Mother or Sithis. Without him, there was no reason to go on. She slept in fear of them coming for her, saying she must do her duty or die. Yet they had left her alone thus far. No doubt they were too busy recruiting new assassins.

She had turned to the Thieves Guild, with its slightly twisted but noble intentions. She had risen and risen through ranks of thieves, and now she bore the mask of the Gray Fox.

And now there was this humble monk with his insecurities and anxieties. He was brave and intelligent and caring. The perfect king, the perfect emperor. And for some reason, he believed his father's prophesy that she must be the one to save the kingdom from Oblivion. Why her? What had she done to deserve such an awesome responsibility? She knew Martin loved her. She loved him. It wasn't the obsessive passion that had driven her love of Lucien, but something mature, soft and gentle. He believed that together, they could defeat the evil of Camoron and Dagon and live happily ever after. She didn't think life worked that way. The chances of one or the other of them dying were extreme. Even if they both survived, their was no way that Tamriel would accept her as its Empress. She kept trying to make him see reality. She would not be his mistress, she could not be his queen. She was just another soldier, with a particularily large job.

A week after her child's birth, she let Martin marry her in a tiny, secret ceremony. One night was all they had, then she left for Camoron's Paradise. What could it hurt, after all, to have allowed him to think of her as wife? Chances were they would not see each other again.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

She stood and stared up at the dragon, the huge stone dragon that had marked Dagon's defeat. Tears rolled down her face. Two children stood with her. One had glittering pink eyes and light blue skin, and appeared about five years old. The other was not even a year younger. He bore all the features of an Imperial, though his mother's strange white hair shaded his eyes.

Keseena cried whenever she looked at the statue, but it was quiet tears. Tears of soft sadness for a man who had lived and died nobly. So unlike what she had felt when Lucien died. Her sorrow for Martin lasted much longer, but was soft. She was proud of him. Chancellor Ocoto took her younger son by the hand, then lifted him above the roaring crowd. She gripped little Lucien by the hand. Someday, he would perhaps question why it was his little brother and not him who was held above the crowds, but for now, she stared at her littlest son's sillhuette against the background of the dragon and listened to the cheers as the Chancellor called out.

"**Hail the Dragon-born! Hail Martin Septim II!" **

"_Martin, I hope you can see this. Your son will rule in your stead. Be proud, my love."_


End file.
